


The Residue of His Mind

by PaulaMcG



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Animagus, Baby Harry, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Hippogriffs, Homelessness, Letters, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Owls, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Poverty, Rejection, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: With Buckbeak as his companion, Sirius continues to escape. Since all he's able to remember is painful, he finds it hard to understand what Remus wants from him.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Wolfstar Hurt Fest





	The Residue of His Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all your support, lovely mods! Thank you for the beta, Liseuse!

_Stay where you are!_

That's all he manages to write before his hand turns into the dog's paw and the pencil rolls down from the boulder of stone he's used as a desk.

Padfoot gets up to his four feet and raises his snout, breathing in the scent of sun-baked heather. The warm wind's blowing along the slopes from where the man's eyes have already seen the silvery glint of the tarn. Having turned to that direction, the dog can hope to spot some prey that hasn't detected him yet. Or, despite his nearsightedness, to discern the movement of the Hippogriff returning.

Perhaps Buckbeak has caught another tasty rabbit and is willing to share. This noble Hippogriff's started to help him relearn what sharing is.

If only, when changing, he could completely leave his human mind behind for a while! What's left of it.

What's left must be the worst part of the mind he's ever had. He knows what the Dementors do. He's aware of deeper damage than the loss of weight and looks. And that hurts as much as the memories he's been allowed to keep – the painful moments of the past still alive in his head.

Padfoot perks his ears to focus on the chirping of grasshoppers, at least, in case there are no rodents moving around in daylight. And now he's back to thinking about the rat.

They should have killed it, or rather he should have done it, alone. At least it's confessed. And it's only a coward, not planning to sneak back and harm the boy, only escaping.

Padfoot must continue to escape, and he can go far away now. The hunt for the rat here can first be taken care of by... the other remaining true Marauder. The werewolf, who will be crafty enough to capture the rat, and to avoid killing it himself.

This is what he should have been able to always remember even though he doesn't have the whole of Sirius Black's brilliant mind. He must save the werewolf – also when in the man form – from killing anyone.

And his terrible mistakes, eternally vivid and detrimental, are gnawing at him ever since the encounter in the Shack, although he's tried not to think about... Remus.

Remus, my Moony. That's what he called him in his mind when... forcing himself to look at the mauled face after the night in their sixth school year when he betrayed his Moony to Snivellus and the wolf hurt himself more badly than ever.

Abruptly rushing down the slope as if to follow a promising scent, Padfoot tries to run away from the memories. But they always catch up with him.

While he knows that there used to be more that he should remember, in all those years of imprisonment, the Dementors never made his Moony disappear completely from his mind. He's never been able to forget how Remus was hurting, bleeding, twisting in agony, suffering from bigotry, trying to hide his condition and his hunger. And how, due to the fears learnt when the heir of Black was abused as a child and until his first escape, he was always unable to offer all that his Moony needed.

Our Moony, he used to say, fearing that people would understand what there was between just the two of them. What was it? That is lost.

He turns and trots back uphill, up to the ruins of the stone wall, a remainder from centuries past when there used to be mines here. How does he know that? He can remember concern while searching information on Birks Fell, which he'd first picked for the Marauders' shared full-moon antics sentimentally on the basis of its name – and the reason why is now lost on him – and he remembers doubting that this spot in North Yorkshire would be suitable, as the landscape turned out to be so open.

And talking about the mines, and about the downy birches that used to grow lower on the slope, while... Sitting right here with his Moony's head in his lap!

Padfoot lays his mangy, malnourished body down in the shade of the bolders of stone. He spies the impatient movement of the owl shifting its weight from one foot to the other, standing on the piece of parchment where he tried to write his reply. This both distracts him from the vague memory and urges him to reach more of the past, so as to understand why...

After he slipped through the bars of his prison and swam to the shore, the residue of his mind has started to work even too well in his dog form, too. But staying curled up in this way was a trick to hide any remaining warmth of emotions from the Dementors. Perhaps...

He's ventured to become a man again. Sitting up with his back against the stone, he wraps his arms and some of the long matted hair around his knees. Having got used to a lot worse, he shouldn't be cold on a summer afternoon, no matter how flimsy his ragged robes are.

Is he feeling the cold of a winter fifteen years ago? He is, indeed, now reaching more detailed, moving memories. Only they're hardly happy ones.

Right here, on a frosty evening, anticipating a long night, trying to focus on how the wolf will be running free and, unlike the dog, without a mind to fear yet the pain in transforming back, he's holding his naked, shivering Moony inside his cloak. Now the convulsions have become more frequent. No longer able to utter a word, Moony tightens the clasp of his hand, urging him to change. He does, ashamed of the ease and the grace of it. While trying to protect the bare skin by pressing his furry body against it, he can't help observing through all his senses how horrendous the final, outer phase of a werewolf's transformation is.

Do his presence and his touch even alleviate the pain enough to compensate for how his Moony hates him to witness this ugly torment? And there's something worse still.

Now, in spring... It's that unseasonably cold and rainy April when he's been away on an Auror training camp. Now his Moony's protesting against being undressed, although he's already unable to control his convulsing body. Pulling the sweatshirt over Moony's head, he's exposing the thinness of the chest, the ribs too visible beneath the scarred skin.

“Don't look at me!” Remus says helplessly, not meaning only the transformation,

Now he's already looked. But what does he do about what he's seen? Nothing, as Remus is too proud and hopes nobody will notice he's gone hungry for weeks. Too eager to prove that he can be independent despite what he is.

In May Remus rents an even crappier room than the previous one, which he couldn't afford after his meagre scholarship was taxed for the war effort, and Sirius dares never find out if he was homeless for a week or even longer. Maybe he stayed with someone, and there was reason for jealousy. Why jealousy? And how did he know that Remus wished to be invited to share his flat while at the same time absolutely not wanting any charity?

What does he... Professor Lupin want now? No, he writes that he's resigned. If only he hadn't – and just continued to enjoy the comforts of Hogwarts. He looked old, but healthy and well-nourished. He'll take care of himself. Why's he after... whom he calls his Pads?

It's safer for both of them not to become any half-arsed band of two Marauders. That's what he can write down.

Here's the pencil on the ground. A stub Remus attached to the note so as to make sure to get a prompt reply.

Sirius will have to find a way to pilfer some parchment and ink and a quill, and write a proper letter to James's son. He must act sane and in control for the boy. His godson. The new memories of him... Harry, with his loyal friends, are enough to fill parts of the desert in his mind, and he'll make it – be the godfather Harry needs. He doesn't have to remember the baby.

If he tries, he can only see the shaking toddler pressed against Hagrid's chest. The small head turning at his godfather's voice only enough for him to spot the bleeding gash on the forehead and the eyes squeezed shut. He should have persuaded – or forced – Hagrid to give the child to him, and not rushed to find and confront the rat. He could have... perhaps found his Moony first, and perhaps if he hadn't been framed for murders of Muggles, too, he could have got a trial, perhaps been saved from Azkaban and from the loss of his good memories, and at least Moony could have believed that he was not guilty – of more than trusting the wrong Marauder.

No, it's no use... Now after the two of them exchanged their casual apologies for having thought of each other as the traitor, there's no need for all this.

No need to respond to all that Remus goes on about in the letter.

A familiar rustle of huge wings, followed by the thudding of two disparate pairs of feet against the ground in front of him, makes Sirius lift his head.

Staring into the glowing orange eyes, he wonders if Buckbeak considered his hunched pose a bow, as the easily-offended Hippogriff now lowers his own head, opening the beak. And Sirius lowers his again, so as to look at what is being laid at his feet. Perhaps they both feel that these exchanges – no matter how subtle, and integral in necessary, natural acts – convey politeness and even something akin to affection. And Buckbeak has been considerate enough to bring half a rabbit to his comrade.

Sirius shifts onto his knees and reaches out a hand to tap the beak. Changing, he feels the odour turn into an enticing scent of blood and fresh meat.

Padfoot steps forward, onto the heather stained with the rabbit's blood, and licks at the carcass – and hurriedly thanking his companion once more, at one of the talons next to it. Ravenous, he sinks his teeth into a loin. He tears off chunks of meet, chews and swallows and just eats and eats as an animal with no thoughts.

No thoughts, no thoughts. Those words still remain in his mind, and after he's satisfied his worst hunger, they grow clearer. More words, more thoughts threaten to emerge. No need?

He lifts his snout, and pricks up his ears to listen to how Buckbeak's breathing's become calm and muffled. His mount's settled for a rest and fallen asleep with the beak under wing plumes. Fed and warm and comfortable when relaxing side by side, they can stay here until sunset.

But now a loud hoot makes Padfoot turn and take reluctantly the few steps to where the letter's still waiting. He presses a front paw onto the parchment for a moment. And a faint mark made with almost dried blood has appeared under the sloppy line of four words.

Relieved, he changes. The reply has now been signed, too. There's no need for the man to do more.

Having rubbed his hands uselessly on his quite as filthy robes, Sirius picks the piece of parchment up cautiously with his fingertips. Before making a roll of it, perhaps he'd better let the paw mark dry properly.

He sits down to lean against Buckbeak's side where the feathers and hair meet. It can't be too scary for him to take another glimpse of Remus's words. Not for a bold Gryffindor, and that's what he used to tell himself he was... at painful moments, so that this memory's been kept safe. What he was...

_My Pads ... so full of joy ... we've got each other back ... still ask you to forgive me ... my fault he escaped and my word's not good enough to prove you innocent ... because of what I am ... that's why also it would have only harmed you if I'd tried to see you in there, or asked for a trial, or revealed what we had shared ... or that's what bloody Dumbledore said ... also stopped me from going back home at all, from getting anything from the flat ... so alone and with no..._

Here there's something crossed over so thoroughly that Sirius couldn't intercept it if he wanted to.

_finally went abroad ... not always easier ... but fine, compared with how you ... so much I hope I'll get to tell you soon ... from Paris to the Mediterranean, and Africa ... on Crete when heard that you ... didn't know what to believe, but I hoped you'd come to me ... waited on Hogwarts grounds, at the places where we once shared our first ... tell you to go away, not to harm James's son ... and I'd come with you – far away ... I've resigned ... I'm coming to you now, and we'll go together ... you must know a lot better both hunger and cold, not just in there but also when as free as without a home ... but perhaps I understand better that even such poverty is less hard when you're not alone ... Tell me where you want to meet – Your Moony._

Not sure if he'll ever remember enough, ever understand, or if he wants to, Sirius fumbles for the pencil on the ground. He turns the parchment over and places it against his knee, and signs with his human hand, too, after all: _Pads_. Hesitating, he still adds something on top: _My Moony_ , and _No..._

Now he knows where he's heading with Buckbeak. To Africa. He needs time, and perhaps he needs to travel through those same faraway places so as to find his way back to whatever it was he used to share with... 

_My Moony! Not yet. Stay where you are! Pads_

**Author's Note:**

> My self-prompt was: _Remus in poverty, Remus and Sirius not able to help each other._


End file.
